


Rostnsthal and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by thornmarch



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, General Shenanigans, Hunting, close encounters of the Vath kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18048707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornmarch/pseuds/thornmarch
Summary: Nothing ever goes according to plan. Why did they think a bandersnatch hunt would be any different?





	Rostnsthal and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> i've been adding a paragraph to this every month for like two years now because i that's what writing is like. thanks to my pal neku for originally giving me the idea, and to noah who listened to me yell about it

Fuck.

There are a thousand different curse words going through Rostnsthal’s mind in that moment, but ‘fuck’ stands out to him. 

He looks at Joye. She looks at him. They both look at the smoke on the horizon, now clearing after the explosion.

“Well fuck,” she says.

Yeah. That about sums it up.

\--

It was more than a day earlier that they’d set out from Falcon’s Nest. Rostnsthal lead a pack of six wary trainees on chocobo back, with Joye and Stephanivien trailing behind.

“Oi, keep up you two or I’ll leave yer asses in th’ snow,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Best keep yer eyes front when yer flying,” Joye yells back.

“I don’t need no chambermaid tellin’ me how t’ fly a bird.”

She flips him off.

He rolls his eyes and faces front again. “Charming lass, ain’t ye.”

They stop for a break at the Convictory, and arrive in the Forelands just as the sun starts to dip below the horizon. The Ishgardians are delighted at the sight of grass -  _ grass _ , of all bloody things! - and they drag their feet. By the time they arrive in Tailfeather he’s about ready for a pint and a mattress. 

The settlement isn’t too far removed from the La Noscean villages he’s familiar with. It has the same scattered-but-organised feel, the same dirt-and-chocobo smell. The people are grubby. They wear tattered furs and speak with a relaxed twang pleasant to his ears. It’s even green enough that it might feel like home if it weren’t so bloody cold. Ishgard is all well and good if one wishes to live on a lord’s dime - a life he’s not at all clamouring to abandon, at least not at present - but there’s a certain charm places like this have that the city lacks.

They have plenty of booze to warm his old heart. The mattresses not so much. Maybe life in the city isn’t so bad after all.

There’s no inn. No spare beds on offer. He holds his tongue in front of the hunters because they’re kind enough to share their liquor for naught more than a song, but his companions are not spared his irritation.

“I thought me days o’ sleepin’ on the cold ground were over when I took yer job offer,” he throws his arms up in the air. “What bloody good is workin’ for a noble if ye can’t even keep a roof o’er our ‘eads?”

Stephanivien looks up from the chocobo he’d been nuzzling and points upwards. “That certainly looks like a ceiling to me.”

Rostnsthal groans, then takes a swig from his glass. Drinking always helps. But, lo and behold, he can’t even enjoy that because Joye’s shooting him a look. What’s the problem now? It’s her fault they’re even here in the first place.

“How many pints is that now?” she crosses her arms.

“This’s the fifth, though it’s no business o’ yours.”

She sniffs. “It is me business if it’s gonna be me throwin’ water in that big mug of yours in the mornin’ to wake you from yer drunken stupor.”

The trainees are lined up along the wall in the next stall over, pretending to sleep.  _ Pretending _ because he catches one with half an eye open when they think he’s not looking. He downs the last of his drink, hands the glass to Joye, then teeters backwards into a pile of hay. 

“Fine. I’ll go t’ sleep then, if tha’s what ye want,” he grumbles. 

He ignores them after that, though he does get to listen to a couple of hours of Stephanivien musing on the applications of chocobo feathers. The young lord keeps talking even when Joye stops responding, and, when Rostnsthal sneaks a look, he finds his boss is talking to himself. 

Or, rather, the bird.

_ Gods _ how did he let himself get talked into this?

\--

“Oh yeah, yer all big and strong when ye’ve got yer walls to hide behind, but wha’ will ye do when ye find yerselves without ‘em?” 

Joye mimes shooting a firearm with her finger. “We’ll take ‘em down, of course.”

“You’ll be runnin’ scared t’ yer mama is what you’ll be doin’,” he snarls. “If ye think yer machinists can take on diff’rent terrain, then prove it.”

She puts her hands on her hips and puffs out her chest. “Fine then.”

As it so turned out, the opportunity to put their assertions to the test came sooner than expected - in the form of some concerned hunters and a booming bandersnatch population.

\--

He wakes up the next morning when Joye kicks him in the ribs.

“Rise ‘n’ shine, sleeping beauty,” she grins down at him, “we’ve got a whole day of hunting ahead of us.”

The string of curses that fall from his mouth are enough to make the trainees blush, and they scurry out of the stable before he can stagger to his feet. The barn is in much the same condition as when he fell asleep, except Stephanivien is covered in hay and feathers and still fast asleep on the floor.

“Oi,” he says, turning to Joye, “Are ye gonna wake the boss up in th’ same charmin’ manner ye used on me?”

“Not bloody likely. Me lordship’s been too good to me to treat ‘im like that.”

“And I haven’t been good t’ ya?”

She snorts. “You’re not the one payin’ me wages.”

“I taught ye how t’ shoot, didn’ I?”

“Aye,” she glares at him.

He grins. “And should ye not be showin’ greater respect to yer dear marksmanship teacher?”

“I’ll show you a bullet between the eyes if you’re gonna talk like that.”

Stephanivien groans from facedown on the floor, startling them out of their argument. “Are you two quite done? You’re disturbing my rest.”

Rostnsthal sighs. He has half a mind to say something about the impoliteness of eavesdropping, but Joye’s looking at him with all the fury of Halone and he’s already got a headache from all the grog. He doesn’t need a bullet making things worse, so he settles for something sensible to say instead. 

“If yer quite ready, boss, we best be gettin’ a move on lest we keep the beasties waitin’.”

The beanpole of a man drags himself to his feet, trailing debris behind him. He’s covered in dirt. His clothes are wrinkled and his eyeshadow’s smudged across his face. He looks even more ridiculous than he usually does, and yet he still flashes them his brightest grin.

“Shall we then?” he asks. Gods, how does he manage to be so  _ radiant _ when he looks like he’s been on the losing side of a fight against a broom.

When they head outside the trainees are waiting for them, along with a meagre breakfast courtesy of the hunters. Rostnsthal wedges himself between two of the older machinists and grabs a bowl. Today’s meal is… sludge. He nudges it with a spoon, confirming that it is indeed more liquid than solid. Chunks of fruit bob about in the oaty mess, and they at least look somewhat appetising. 

He opens his mouth to complain but pauses when he sees Joye has taken the seat opposite him. She’s watching. Waiting. Her eyes follow each change in his expression, no doubt ready with an insult should he decide the meal isn’t to his liking. 

So he shovels the sludge into his mouth, letting it slide down his throat so as to spend as little time tasting it as possible. He’s been called many things but he shant suffer to be named a picky eater.

Joye sniffs but says nothing about his poor table manners.

Once they’re fed it’s time to saddle the chocobos, and after that they rally around a map to chart their travel into bandersnatch territory. He deliberately moves in front of Joye so she can’t see, smirking to himself when she stands on the tips of her toes in an attempt to peer over his shoulder.

A hunter circles the area north of Tailfeather with her finger. “You’re most likely to find the beasts here, though they’ve been wandering further south in search of food as of late.” She jabs at a pass to the west. “Keep to this side of the crags if you can help it. Any further and you risk running across gnath patrols.”

Stephanivien frowns. “I had heard the gnath utilise firearms. Will we not have the chance to observe them, even from a distance?”

The hunter pauses. “We have only a few accounts of gnath venturing this far so I’d say you’d be right unlucky if you did manage to stumble across any out here.”

“A shame,” he says. “I’d hoped to procure at least one of their devices for study.”

Rostnsthal shakes his head. “Yer the first person I’ve met who hoped to scrap with beastmen.”

“Not necessarily  _ scrap _ . I’m sure they would be amenable to trade if given the right incentive.”

“You’ve not had many dealings with ‘em, have ye.”

He tilts his head. “I cannot say that I have. Though I would posit that, from my understanding, previous attempts to treat with beastmen have not entirely been made in good faith.”

Rostnsthal growls but the hunter steps between them before he has the chance to grab his boss by the collar.

“He has the right of it, sir,” she says, eyes flicking back and forth between them. “The gnath are hostile and should be avoided at all costs. They’ve already carried a handful of our people off to the depths of their hive and it would not do to have you all share their fate.”

Tempering. The thought is enough to make Rostnsthal’s skin crawl. He’s heard enough stories of sahagin sweeping entire crews into servitude, seen enough men taken before his eyes only to return weeks later as thralls of the Lord of the Whorl… Death is better. And if the gnath seek to commit the same crimes then he shall  _ not _ make himself an easy target by straying into their territory.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Bite the bullet. He has his quarrels with each and every one of them, sure, but not even Joye deserves to be made a mindless husk. 

An elbow to the rib forces him backwards before he can open his mouth and Joye wriggles her way past him to stand beside the hunter. “I understand your curiosity, me lordship, but the beastmen have naught to do with our task. We should do what we came here to do, lest we bring the Manufactory into ill repute.”

She knows how to wrap the boss around her finger, gods bless her. And damn her for making him think of praising her.

Stephanivien nods slowly. “You are correct, Joye. The thought escaped me - thank you for reminding me that we have more important matters to attend to.”

The hunter breathes a sigh of relief. “Alright then, you’d best be off. We’ll have some wagons come past a little past noon to pick up your marks, so try to have everything back by the river before then.”

They set off with only minimal further discussion, mostly concerning landmarks and a few spots to find food and water if they run into any trouble. Rostnsthal leads their odd procession, with the recruits following in a loose gaggle behind. Stephanivien has strict instructions to stay in amongst them where it’s safest. He wilfully ignores this advice whenever something catches his attention, and it’s only through Joye’s strict supervision that they manage to reach the bridge without losing him.

The deeper they go into the Forelands, the thicker the greenery gets. Chocobos dart in and out amongst the trees and the recruits watch them with awe. 

“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” a Hyur girl says.

“Sure you have,” the Lalafellin man beside her laughs. “There were plenty back in Tailfeather.”

She frowns at him. “These are wild, though. It’s not the same!”

Rostnsthal motions for his charges to gather round as he retrieves the map from his pack. He shakes out the creases and glowers down at the unfamiliar lines, slicing them up in his mind. Once he has an idea of how to divide the terrain up equally he casts a critical eye over the group.

Six trainees, two instructors, and Stephanivien. The boss can shoot, sure, but he’s probably not much better at it than the trainees. If they’re going to have even groups he’ll have to account for the difference in skill. The weaker students should go with him or Joye. The more experienced ones can babysit.

“Oi, you two,” he says, looking between a fidgety Hyur boy and a willowy Elezen. They both jump to attention when they realise they’re being addressed.

“Sir!”

He rolls his eyes at the formality. “Yer with Joye, workin’ north-east.”

They shuffle around until they’re standing closest to Joye, who shrugs in indifference. 

“You, and you,” Rostnsthal says, pointing at the chocobo girl and a middle-aged Elezen man, “with me. The rest of ya take the boss west, and make sure ya keep yer eyes on him. I don’ much want the Count comin’ down on us b’cause we brough’ the lordling back with only one arm.” He turns to Stephanivien. “Pullin’ yer weight won’t be any trouble, right boss?”

Stephanivien beams. “Of course not! I can’t very well sit around while our machinists are hard at work, and I have heard that bandersnatch meat tastes all the better when one slays it themselves.”

“Glad t’ hear it,” Rostnsthal says. He shoots Joye a toothy grin and she glares at him in return.

The day goes about as well as he’d expected. The recruits haven’t fought anything that could seriously injure them before. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was an incident once with a goobbue in the Central Highlands where an overconfident Lalafell came close to being eaten, but apart from that he’s never had cause to worry. They’re his students. While there are a few close calls (narrowly averted through his quick action, naturally) his two companions quickly learn how to best evade the bandersnatches’ attacks. 

By the time the sun is high above them, they manage to amass a respectable pile of beasts. Transporting the carcasses back to the appointed meeting place turns out to be almost as hard as the hunting, and once they’ve finally managed to drag everything over the trainees look read to drop.

Joye arrives not long afterwards. Her group doesn’t have quite so many beasts, but each bandersnatch is considerably larger.

She sniffs as she eyes his haul. “Quantity over quality, I see.”

Rostnsthal ignores her, kicking his boots off and plopping down to hang his legs off the bridge. He can just reach the river below if he stretches, icy water licking up to sting his toes. It’s almost pleasant after being on his feet all day.

“No sign of his lordship yet?” Joye asks, shading her eyes with her hand and scanning the road ahead for movement.

He shrugs. “‘M sure they’re on their way.”

Joye sits next to him, though she keeps her shoes on. She wrinkles her nose when he produces a flask from his coat and takes a long draught.

“Wha’, you want som’?” He offers it and she takes a swig, gulping it down with a wince.

“What is this? Piss?”

Rostnsthal guaffs so loudly it startles a flock of sparrows from a nearby tree. 

“Might as well be,” he says. “It’s bootleg Lominsan rum. Distilled the molasses meself.”

She blanches, thrusting the flask back into his hands. “Disgusting! Can’t you at least afford summat decent with wha’ me lordship is payin’ ya?”

He sighs. “Sometimes a man jus’ wants a drink tha’ reminds him o’ home.” No, this is a little too close to  _ bonding _ for his liking. Better go back to insults. “Besides, you Ishgardians are too busy with yer fancy wines and meads. Ya wouldn’ know a real drink if it kicked ya in th’ arse.”

“Real drinks aren’t supposed to taste like they’ve already been through you once,” she mutters.

The wagons come into view through the trees, a cheerful hunter waving to them as they approach.

“Looks like you’ve all had a productive morning,” he says once he’s within earshot.

“Aye,” Rostnsthal calls back. He takes another swig from his flask before stashing it back in his coat and moving to put on his shoes. Regret twitches through him when he realises it’s too cold for his feet to dry quickly. He’s going to have to endure wet socks until they get back to Tailfeather.

Ah, well. Worse things have happened at sea.

The lead hunter jumps down from his wagon, motioning for the four or so others behind to start loading the bandersnatch carcasses. He meanders over, nodding in approval as he casts his eye over their haul.

“Yes, yes, good hunting was had today. We shall sup on roasted meat tonight!,” he turns back to Rostnsthal and Joye with a smile, faltering when he notices Stephanivien’s absence. “Ah, I seem to recall there were more of you when you left. Has your lord wandered off?”

“They should’ve been back by now,” Joye says. She looks off into the trees and bites her lip when the missing group doesn’t immediately appear. “D’ya think summat’s happened to them?”

Rostnsthal scratches the back of his neck. They  _ should _ have been back by now, and their absence gives rise to an uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He nods to the hunter. “Would ya mind stickin’ ‘round for a bit while we go ‘an see wha’s keepin’ ‘em?”

The hunter gives a lazy salute. “‘Course; it’s no trouble. We’d planned to water the chocobos before turning around anyhow.”

Rostnsthal looks to Joye, who nods back at him. They set off across the bridge at a jog and move for the treeline. It doesn’t look all that different on this side of the river. There are the same trees, the same smell of crisp mountain air and damp soil, the same whispering of wind through ramie. Neither of them speak as the tramp through the undergrowth. He can’t speak for Joye, but Rostnsthal is running through a comprehensive and colourful list of curses.

It’s about a malm before they stumble across two panicked trainees hiding behind a tree trunk.

“Oh thank Halone,” the Elezen woman gasps as she stumbles out, grabbing at the lapels of Rostnsthal’s coat. “Molko’s hurt and I couldn’t remember how to get back to the river. The Gnath- The-they-”

Rostnsthal grasps her shoulders to keep her still while Joye ducks around the log to see to the Lalafellin man. “Gnath? Where’s the boss?”

She blinks at him. “They attacked us, must’ve heard us hunting, so we hid. Molko tripped so I stayed with him. I don’t know where the chief went.”

“He’s hit his head,” Joye pipes up, standing up just enough to peer over the log. “Got a right big bruise spreadin’ across his noggin’.”

“Shit,” Rostnsthal snarls. He steps back and pats himself down in a flurry, digging into his coat when he feels the object he’s looking for before pressing it into the hands of the Elezen woman.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“A compass. Ya think ya can get ‘im back t’ th’ others if ya follow the bearing east?” he pauses just long enough for her to nod. “Righ’ then, where did th’ Gnath come from?”

She shakes her head. “It all happened so quickly, I don’t-”

“Jus’ calm down a second and think abou’ it,” he says.

She furrows her brow, moving to Joye and gently hoisting the Lalafell into her arms. After a moment she points west. 

“That way, I think.”

Joye nods. “Get back to the others. If we’re not back in a bell you should all go back t’ Tailfeather. We’ll find our own way when we’ve recovered me lordship.”

The woman is too bewildered to respond before they’re tearing off through the trees again. The boss has been kidnapped by Gnath. Perfect. Just  _ bloody  _ perfect. He was just starting to like them and now his boss has gone off to get tempered. He’ll have to kill another person that didn’t deserve it. He’ll be a murderer - again - and he’ll go back to only being hated, to stewing in guilt with no chance to do any good in the world.

No, not those thoughts. He’s too far from a bar to be thinking like that.

The trees gradually start to thin out and soon they’re hurtling across scorched earth, the air heavy with a stench reminiscent of U’Ghamaro. 

“Hol’ up!” he shouts, skidding to a stop. 

Joye slows just ahead of him, casting a confused look over her shoulder. “What?”

“We can’ jus’ go chargin’ in t’ beastman territory withou’ a plan,” he says. 

She pats the aetherotransformer at her hip. “I’ve got a plan.”

“Ya can’ shoot all of ‘em.”

“I can try.”

He grabs her wrist before she can charge off on her own. “An’ you’ll die, or end up worshippin’ some godsforsaken Primal an’ tha’ may as well be th’ same thing.”

“I- will- not-” she punctuates each word with a pull of her arm, trying to wrest herself free, “abandon- me lordship- to-”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence. A huge  _ boom _ rings out across the Forelands, the ground itself shaking from the force. Smoke billows into the sky in the south-west.

He looks at Joye. She looks at him. They both look at the smoke on the horizon, now clearing after the explosion.

“Well fuck,” she says.

For once, they’re on the same track. “Ya think it migh’ve been th’ boss?”

She wriggles in his hold until her hand is wrapped around his wrist and pulls. “It has to be! Let’s go, let’s go!”

He relinquishes her so quickly she stumbles, but she catches herself before she falls and sets off at a sprint. Rostnsthal does his best to keep up. They follow the river south, and he pushes the nervous energy he feels from seeing Loth ast Gnath draw closer into speed. 

The smoke has dispersed by the time they reach their destination, but they can tell they’re where they need to be from the scorch marks on the ground and the scent of gunpowder. 

Rostnsthal doubles over and fights to keep his lungs in his chest. Gods, he hasn’t run that much in an age. Maybe two. His sight blurs and he shakes his head, trying to bring everything back into focus.

“I don’t see anythin’,” Joye says. When he looks up she’s scanning their surroundings, standing on the tips of her toes as though it will help her see more.

“Wha’ d’ya mean, you don’ see anythin’?” he wheezes. “There’s gotta be summat.”

She shakes her head. Her back is to him, but he can tell she’s on the verge of tears from the way her shoulders crumple inwards. “We’ve lost ‘im.”

“No, we ‘aven’t.”

“Me lordship is gone, an’ it’s my fault, an’ I’m gonna be out on the streets but that doesn’t matter because me lordship believed in me an’ now he’s-”

Rostnsthal drags himself up and stumbles over to clap a hand on her shoulder. Her despair resonates a little too closely with him - the loss of the only person to believe in him - and he’d rather not get into a loop of falling apart.“‘S gonna be alrigh’.”

She shakes her head.

“Yes, it is,” he sighs. “Don’ give up yet. We’ve still got yer plan, don’t we?”

She wipes her eyes on her sleeve and looks up at him with furrowed brows. “The one where I shoot all the Gnath by meself?”

He forces himself to smile. “Aye, tha’ one.”

It’s the worst plan he’s ever heard. They’ll die. The boss will die, if he’s not already dead. But it’s better than trudging back to Tailfeather and living with yet another regret to drown in cheap rum.

Joye takes a deep breath to steady herself. “You sure? I think I could take ‘em alone, but yer welcome to tag along as long as ya don’t go stealin’ me glory.”

“Oh that won’t do, that won’t do at all,” a metalic, reedy voice says from behind them.

The machinists whirl around, drawing their weapons in smooth, practiced motions, the muzzles of their firearms aimed squarely at the source of the noise.

It’s… an insect. An insect-man? But that would make it a-

“Gnath!” Joye snarls.

The beastman startles, bringing its claws up in what looks like a placating gesture. “No! Free of the Onemind, we are. Not Gnath!”

Rostnsthal keeps his gun levelled at it. “Aye, I’ve ‘eard tha’ one afore.”

“Peace, fleshlings, we mean no harm,” it says. “We are Vath. We have come to see if any jars remain unbroken from scuffle with the Onemind.”

Joye and Rostnsthal look at each other. She raises and eyebrow. He shrugs.

“Alright, Vath,” she says, turning back to the beastman. “If you’re not going to hurt us, then ‘ave you seen a tall Elezen man about?”

The thing clicks its mandibles. “We have seen many tall fleshlings.”

“Did you see one  _ here _ ,” Rostnsthal hisses.

“We rescued a tall fleshling from here, yes,” it says. “We saw it being carried off and came to help. The fleshling took boomsticks from the Onemind and made big boom. Yes, very big. Broken all of Farwalker’s jars, it seems.”

“And where did you take him?” Joye asks.

“Not safe here, not safe at all,” the Vath says. It nudges at a shattered ceramic pot with its foot. “Farwalker took fleshling back to Loth ast Vath. We passed them on our way back from collecting eggs, so Farwalker took our eggs and asked us to check for jars. Oh, Farwalker will be sad. All are broken.”

She looks to Rostnsthal. “What should we do?”

He’s honestly not sure. The beastmen he’s been unlucky enough to happen across have all been hostile. He’s heard tales of Sahagin and Kobolds promising help to wayward travellers only to lead them deeper into beastman territory, but he’s never seen it himself. On the other hand he’s heard tell of a peaceful group of Kobold in Outer La Noscea. There’s no way to tell whether this thing before them is friend or foe.

His gut says not to trust beastmen. His head says it might be the only option.

Rostnsthal grimaces and holsters his rifle. He ignore the voice in the back of his mind screaming about how he’s going to wind up brainwashed and enslaved.

Joye blinks at him. “You sure?”

He nods, turning back to the Vath. “Could ya take us t’ this ‘fleshling’?”

“Oh,” it tilts its head. “You wish to see our home? We would like that, we would, but fleshlings must put boomsticks away. They are dangerous. Yes, very dangerous.”

Joye frowns but complies. “You’d show us? Even after we were ready to shoot ya?”

“Oh, yes!” it chatters, clicking in a higher pitch that sounds almost like a laugh. “The Nonmind wishes to learn much about our neighbours. We understand they are afraid, we do. All fleshlings look the same to us, so Gnath and Vath must look the same to fleshlings. How scary it would be if we could not tell fleshlings from the Onemind! Oh, we are scared just thinking about it.”

Joye looks at him as though expecting him to be able to explain the Vath’s behaviour. He shrugs. Until today, the only thing he’d heard any beastman say was ‘die’.

If the Vath notices their confusion, it doesn’t show it. It sets off north and waves over its shoulder for them to follow. “Come, fleshlings! We must go. The Onemind will come as we did, and we do not wish to be here when they do, oh no.”

They jog a few steps to catch up, with Rostnsthal falling in just behind it and doing his best to match his stride to its tiny steps. “So, d’ Vath have names or are ya all jus’ called ‘Vath’?”

It makes the high-pitched chattering sound again. “Oh no, no no. We are Braveheart. We wish to be bravest of the Nonmind, the very bravest.”

Joye looks at him again, her eyebrows knitted together. She keeps alternating between quick and slow steps, evidently torn between her desire to find the boss and her distrust of the beastmen. 

_ ‘S alrigh’, _ he mouths. Hopefully it’s reassuring. He’s still not sure what they’re getting into but he is at the very least pleased to be heading  _ away _ from Loth ast Gnath. “I’m Rostnsthal.”

She nods her acknowledge but bites her lip, still uneasy. “Joye.”

“So Braveheart,” she says, “why d’ya want to learn about yer neighbours?”

“Vath and fleshlings both are hunted by the Onemind - it makes sense to work together, yes?” it clicks. “Oh yes, we are stronger with many. Onemind cannot take us if we are strong, cannot bend us to the will of the Overmind.”

So they fear their Primal. Well, it’s as good a reason as any to forge an alliance. Replace ‘Primal’ with ‘Garlemald’ and the city-states of Eorzea aren’t any different.

“Huh,” he grunts.

They trudge their way through the burnt landscape, weaving through crumbled pillars and peppering Braveheart with questions. Joye becomes visibly more uneasy the closer they draw to a huge derelict tower and, when he looks closer, he spies several hulking forms studying them from above.

“Wha’s that?” He asks, pointing at the tower.

Braveheart cocks its head, as though the answer is obvious. “Fleshling does not know Anyx Trine? Nest of Dravanians, it is.”

Ah. That explains it. Joye’s fingers twitch closer to her weapon and he hisses a warning. They’ve already gotten into enough trouble today - he’s not keen to add dragons to the list.

He clears his throat when the Vath stops to look at him. “They won’ bother us, right?”

“Worry not, fleshling. Dravanians will not bother us if we do not bother them. We have ways to keep them away, oh yes.”

“And what would those be?” Joye asks.

“Silver dew!” Braveheart chatters. “It has very subtle smell that Dravanians do not like. They stay well away from Loth ast Vath.”

She hums, casting her gaze back to the tower. “We could have used that durin’ the war,” she mumbles.

The sun is well on its way to the horizon before they stumble across Loth ast Vath, spread out before them at the base of the cliff they stand on. It’s a sheer drop but, with Braveheart’s help, they’re able to climb down into the settlement without trouble.

It’s a curious place. There are a few of the pock-marked vertical structures they’d seen down near Loth ast Gnath, and a handful of odd winged creatures are tethered to posts by the far wall. In the centre of it all is a short podium, on which two Vath and an Elezen man are sitting. Relief washes over Rostnsthal at the sight.

“Me lordship!” Joye shouts, abandoning all caution to rush forward. 

The boss looks in their direction and waves, a grin spreading over his face. He’s covered in soot and dirt and his shirt has a few rips along its sleeves, but he looks otherwise unharmed.

“I see you two have also had the pleasure of meeting my Vath friends,” Stephanivien says. “We’ve been having the loveliest conversation.”

She skids to a stop just in front of him and does a quick lap of his person, examining for any injuries. Satisfied, she stops and puts her hands on her hips. “What happened? The recruits said you were attacked by Gnath. We thought you’d been carried off to be tempered!”

He laughs. “Yes, we were attacked, but it was not much trouble. I had complete control over the situation.”

“There was an explosion!” she shouts.

“Yes,” he nods, “I had seized component parts from several of the Gnath’s weapons before they disarmed me. When the opportunity presented itself I simply ignited the firesand and ran.”

“Oh yes, quite impressive it was,” the Vath sitting to his left clicks. “We were surprised, very surprised indeed, to see a fleshling make such a large boom.”

Stephanivien smiles at the praise. “The Farwalker here chased off those who remained and then offered to guide me back to safety.” He leans to the side to peer around Joye, and his face lights up when he sees their companion. “Oh, Braveheart! It is good to see you again. Did you manage to salvage those jars.”

“N-no, we did not,” it replies. “All broken. We are sorry, very sorry.”

The Farwalker chatters. “Disappointed. Not Braveheart’s fault, worry not. We are the ones who threw the jars.”

“I am quite sorry to put you out on my behalf,” Stephanivien says.

“No, no, fleshling need not be sorry. We helped because we wanted to.”

Rostnsthal groans and shakes his head. He’ll never understand this man. Not if he lives a thousand summers. “Tha’s all well and good, boss, but we’ve spent the afternoon runnin’ all over th’ Forelands lookin’ for yer.”

“You gave the trainees quite a fright,” Joye adds. 

Stephanivien frowns. “Now that won’t do. I had intended to return after finishing my discussion here but I now see that my absence has caused unintended distress.”

“Tha’s one way t’ put it,” Rostnsthal snorts.

“I apologise for worrying you, my friends,” Stephanivien says. His words are full of such sincerity that Rostnsthal’s annoyance crumbles. Not even the Fury herself could stay mad at this man.

The Vath to Stephanivien’s right clicks and pulls itself to its feet. Unlike the others, this one has appendages on its face that resemble eyebrows and a beard. It looks almost like an old man.

“Then you shall be off, fleshlings?” it asks.

Stephanivien clambers to his feet and dusts himself off. “Yes, I think it would be best for us to return to our companions. Thank you for your hospitality, Vath Storyteller.”

“We were most pleased to have you. Do return, if you are ever in the Forelands. We may well have established communication with the fleshling settlement by then.”

After a round of handshakes - the Vath accepting the gesture with some confusion and an abundance of enthusiasm - the three set off for Tailfeather. Stephanivien recounts his stay with the Vath and rattles off a list of things he learned about their unique applications of firesand, and Rostnsthal pretends to listen.

“Hey, boss?” he asks.

Stephanivien looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Ya didn’ get captured by Gnath on purpose, did ya?”

“Of course not, but what a happy accident it turned out to be!”

Joye glares at him from behind the boss’ back and he decides to hold his tongue lest she rip it from his mouth.

They arrive back at Tailfeather just as the sun dips below the horizon. The chocobo girl spots them first and raises the alarm, and soon enough they’re surrounded by trainees all talking over each other about how worried they were.

“We are quite alright,” Stephanivien soothes. “I am sorry to have worried you when you should all be enjoying the decadence of meal caught with one’s own hands! Tell me, who hunted the most prey today? What techniques did you use? Did you find any type of ammunition particularly useful?”

Rostnsthal, never one for such discussions, withdraws from the group. He finds a spot beside the stream and sits. 

He’d issued the challenge that brought them here. Had he expected the result? Insofar as knowing the recruits would handle the change in terrain, yes, but he hadn’t anticipated a cross-country hunt for a wayward lord. Or sleeping in a barn. Or that his socks would  _ still _ be wet and - ah, fuck, he’d been so distracted by everything else that he hadn’t noticed the blisters forming. 

Sometime taps against his arm and he turns to find Joye, with two wooden mugs in hand.

“Thought ya could do with a drink after that,” she says.

He takes the mug silently. She kicks her boots off and sits on the grass, dangling her feet in the stream. 

“Don’t get used to this, ya grimy bastard,” she sniffs.

He snorts. “Wouldn’t dream o’ it, ya harridan.”

Later, lying on his back in the barn and watching the stars through the gap in the ceiling, he realises it was her way of saying thank you. For sticking with her. For being willing to follow her into Loth ast Gnath. It’s been a long time since anyone was genuinely grateful for his presence. He’d forgotten what it felt like.

“Oi. Joye,” he calls.

A small voice answers from somewhere on the other side of a bale of hay. “Wha?”

“T’day was a bad day, wasn’ it?”

“Of course it fuckin’ was. Shuddup and go t’ sleep.”

“Bad days make good stories.”

There’s silence for a moment, save for the soft mutterings of Stephanivien a few stalls over where he’s explaining aetherophysics to a chocobo.

She lets out a confused whine. “What’s yer point?”

“We can tell it when we go out drinkin’ together.”

More silence. Then: “I’ll drink ya under the table.”

“I’d like t’ see ya try.”

His back is going to hurt in the morning. His feet with ache. He’ll probably be ready to kill Joye again by noon tomorrow. It will almost certainly be a bad day. 


End file.
